


Drifting

by meanderingsoul



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Autumn, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Ficlet, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, Retirement, raking leaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanderingsoul/pseuds/meanderingsoul
Summary: The yard was buried in leaves.





	Drifting

**Author's Note:**

> For today's promptober - raking leaves!

The yard was buried in leaves.

They really didn’t care about the lawn; retirement hadn’t turned them into that sort of people, and they’d finally bought an older house on an older street for a reason, steep-roofed houses far apart along asphalt that faded to gravel at the edges, dense with big trees. (Still less than three hours from base, less than two if they were in a hurry. Barely an hour if a quinjet was involved.)

The ragged drifts of reds and yellows and browns were nice. Melinda kicked through them in crunchy flutters when she thought no one was looking. Phil had tried to convince the cat to jump into the piles the days she deigned to let him pick her up. Daisy had raked a huge pile for her own use last time she was here, remnants of it sloped up against a tree.

But the leaves were starting to come in through the front door along with them so Phil was raking, even though he really couldn’t do it very much before his back would hurt the next day. But, clearing off around the front path and the garage couldn’t take that long and he'd needed to stop typing for a bit.

It was quiet outside. The morning fog had faded, but the sky was grey and smooth overhead. His breath misted in front of him. Phil liked the earthy smell of the leaves, the crunching of the rake. They’d spent so much time in cities, which did have their advantages, so much time on busy bases, but that wasn’t the kind of place he and Melinda were from.

He ended up with two bags leaned against the garage to deal with later, enough space inside for Lola and May’s bike and a nondescript grey car they used most of the time. His shoulder had cramped when he was halfway done, but he knew how to lean into the wall to help it let up, how to breathe through it. The limits on his body now weren’t anything new.

The house was silent.

He’d left soup stock simmering to finish dinner later, gave it a stir. The lights were off up in the loft, the fireplace almost cold. They usually only lit it at night until winter.

May vanished into the trees for hours on end when she got restless, coming back with muddy boots and usually a bucket of mushrooms or herbs or berries, gifted with the same almost feline, matter of fact air with which she'd used to hand over a captured target. Now it was dirt in the kitchen sink. Phil loved the days he went with her, milder weather and shorter walks. May still hiked.

But her phone was still here, a dry mug next to it like she’d been thinking about tea. He went ahead and put the kettle on the stove.

The slider to the back porch opened silently. It hadn’t squeaked since the second day they’d lived here when May had turned on it with a glower.

The back yard faded into woods in irregular shapes, the trees mostly bare now but they had a few evergreens. Big patches of the ground were still bushy dark green, kale and cabbages, spinach and radishes. They still had weeks before the snow would get too thick for them. No reason to rush in bringing them in.

Melinda was sound asleep in the hammock again, breathing slow with raspy little sounds.

She was still up by six in the morning, but she napped now, at least once, maybe twice if they were both tired for some reason, frequently with the cat draped over her.

Phil watched for a minute. He liked the big sweatshirt she was twisted in, the dark leggings he knew were fuzzy inside, not meant for training in. He loved the grey streaks in her hair now.

He still sighed when he noticed her feet were bare.

Phil kissed her forehead, nuzzled her too-cold nose with his. She twitched, but didn’t bother to open her eyes.

“Melinda.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s too cold to sleep out here like this,” he said, setting his palms on her icy bare toes, glossy black nails and too pale skin.

“It’s not cold.”

“Oh really?” He set her feet against his side tucked under his sweater even though Phil knew it’d make him hiss.

She huffed, turned to sit up in the hammock with a sway that bumped his hip. “Tea?”

“Water’s boiling. Looks like you didn’t get that far.”

May gave him a chilly kiss and yanked his hat down to cover his eyes.

Phil finished their tea and Melinda lit the fire early, curled up under his arm on the couch with a sigh, rubbed her cheek on his shoulder.

The only leaves left inside were the ones May collected, dried flat and piled into a shadowbox where the cat couldn’t shred them all over the house. There was a new one today, pressing on the table, a fade of brown and gold.


End file.
